


Predictable

by thirtypercent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Humans. Such dumb, predictable animals. The obviousness of it all makes him want to set fire to the entire building.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predictable

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One for the Files](https://archiveofourown.org/works/665171) by [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism). 



> A remix of a brilliant [221b](https://archiveofourown.org/works/665171) by the lovely and talented [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism).
> 
> Thanks persiflager, lapotter, and airynothing for lending their eyeballs at the eleventh hour. One of these days I will manage my time responsibly, but alas, today is not that day.

***

The hotel lobby is as elegant as he’d anticipated, the heels of his sleek black oxfords meeting polished Italian marble with a satisfying click at every step. He glides across the elaborate mosaic toward the reception desk, his spine straightening as admiring glances drift his way, as inexorable as the shifting tide.

His eyes flick over the assembled wealth in the room. Small, petty humans and their small, petty concerns. Embezzlement, political intrigue, pyramid schemes. Simply fancier words the wealthy give to crimes as tedious as any he’d encounter nursing a pint down at the local hellhole.

He meets the eyes of a woman clad in discreet diamonds, Chanel, and plastic surgery, and the less-than-discreet telltale signs of a wealthy husband and opportunistic lover.

An aspiring widow. How predictable.

Humans. Their complete lack of agency enrages him. The problems that flood his inbox on a daily basis are outright insulting: if people would just exercise the flaccid grey matter between their ears for five minutes, they could be masters of their own fates. But no, they want to be led, they want to be told how to live their lives.

He holds her gaze, and the rest is child’s play: the quirk of an eyebrow, the tilt of his chin, the touch of his tongue to his bottom lip. And there, in her eyes: that flash of fear, of near-revulsion, of intrigue. Such dumb, predictable animals.

The obviousness of it all makes him want to set fire to the entire building.

But he’s not here to solve other people’s idiotic problems. He drops her gaze as he slides up to the reception desk. He’s on a mission of his own, this time. And as he’d shown so clearly, anyone who touched what was his would lie dead in a pool of their own blood.

The rage rears up again, nearly blinding in its intensity: a black cloud pressing at the backs of his eyes and compressing his lungs. His fingers threaten to shake. Unacceptable. He smooths his tie, adjusting the tie pin with precise motions. The metal is smooth and cool under his fingertips, and as he takes a careful breath his vision clears and the rage recedes.

The receptionist turns her smile on him, as polished and insubstantial as everything else in this lobby. “Welcome to the Four Seasons.”

His congenial smile slips into place with the familiarity of long practice, but the edge of anticipation in his gut is as cool and sharp as a new suit from his favourite tailor.

He pushes his passport across the countertop. “I believe I have a reservation for tonight.”

She turns to her computer, and as he listens to the click of her nails on the keys, he permits his smile to turn genuine at the edges.

It’s time.

She slides his room key and passport back across the countertop, her precisely manicured fingernail lingering over the name. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Moriarty.”

Sherlock slips the passport into his pocket, his mask firmly in place again. “Thank you. I can’t wait.”

***


End file.
